Adela Lambert’s granddaughter stopped at the curb in front of Ted, a plate of sugar cookies in hand. “Two for a dollar,” she yelled above the sound of the destruction.

Ted felt his pockets. No wallet. He laughed. “Can I get a couple on credit?”

The girl shook her head at him sadly, then walked on.

THE CROWDS HAD DISSIPATED BY THE TIME ALLISON FOUND NICK alone that afternoon. He was sitting in the now-silent bulldozer, gazing at Suzanne and Grant’s house. The sun was setting rather gloriously, as if it understood that it was witnessing the end of something.

Nick saw her approach and smiled, flirtatious. “Hey, beautiful.”

She leaned into the cab. He closed his eyes, readying for a kiss.

“Fraud!” she cried. And she pushed his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and laughed. “Happy new year to you too.”

“You tricked me.”

“They had mold.”

So he said, but who knew if that was even true? Suzanne had pulled her aside during the early, giddy part of the day, to tell her about the bathroom caulk and the black streaks under the kitchen sink. Suzanne, in CEO mode, told Cox to tear down walls “and keep on tearing” until he found the mother lode.

“You said—and I quote—‘I’m all about preserving what’s best about the town,’” Allison said.

“I am,” Nick said.

“It was an original Sears Modern Home.”

“Modern for what . . . 1920?” He looked disappointed. “I thought you got it.”

“Got what? What are you talking about?” Allison said.

“That old houses are obsolete. You agreed with me.”

“I agreed that the arts and crafts houses in Winterset were nice.”

He nodded. “And you agreed that some houses in Willard Park weren’t worth keeping.”

“I didn’t mean everything built before 1980 should be bulldozed!”

“It’s not a bulldozer, Mrs. Miller. It’s a compact excavator.”

Allison wasn’t playing. “Let me rephrase that: I didn’t mean we should compact-excavate everything built before 1980.”

“God you’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“Be quiet,” she said. Were people watching them? Were they going to report that they’d had a heated conversation and come up with damning theories? “And I’m not,” she protested. She wasn’t sexy. She was cold, and her nose was probably bright red, and she was mad.

He smiled again. God, that smile. “What is up with your eyes?”

“Nothing . . . They’re just eyes.”

“They were green a minute ago.”

She blushed, gently waving his words away.

“You are a witch. You’ve bewitched me.”

She pushed at his shoulder again, but not as hard. “Don’t try to butter me up.”

“Ooooh,” he said. “That sounds fun.”

“Don’t.” She tried to refuel her anger, to ready it to lob back at him. He was a monster. He was ruining their town. What was wrong with Allison to be sleeping with him? She was sleeping with him now. They’d slept together twice, both times at the Sawyers’ when she was allegedly walking the dog.